Chapter 10

The carriage rumbled over the cobblestones, taking them to the viscountess's townhouse. After settling his lover onto the well-padded seat of his equipage, he had briefly returned to the terrace and observed her mother and Lady Barnaby were still in the ballroom. Confident no one would learn of their tryst, he'd returned to the carriage.

The night's indulgences had evidently taken their toll on Elizabeth, and her usual poise was replaced by a charming disarray. James could not explain the feelings that moved him, but he shifted and urged her onto his thighs and simply wrapped his arms around her.

By God, it felt good.

A lover had never slept in his arms before. A peculiar but very warm sensation pierced him when she burrowed deeper against his chest as if she would crawl into his skin if it were possible. His sexual encounters had always been about slaking his physical needs while ensuring his partner enjoyed herself. James had never wanted to linger over a lover, kissing her skin with slow softness, holding her against him to simply … hold her.

Being with Elizabeth felt distinctly different. It had been a long time since he had engaged in genuine conversation with a lady who didn't gaze at him with avarice or shower him with compliments solely to gain favor with him. Even with the few lovers he'd had over the years, their connection had always been transactional.

James stared down at her face, which was soft and lovely and still flushed. It was refreshing to interact with someone who did not give a damn about his title, someone whose passion was earnest and who was simply, undeniably charming.

"You want me again," she murmured sleepily.

Hell. It was then James realized his cock had grown hard. He glanced down at his lover. Her eyes were half closed, her breasts rising and falling in rapid rhythm. He forced himself to silently count to ten, then twenty, to cool the fire in his blood. How could he want her again after the madness of what just happened in the garden?

"You are too sore for any more tupping."

Her mouth curved into a small smile, the gesture gentle and content, yet her eyes remained serenely closed as she curled into his arms.

"I want you fit and ready for tomorrow's adventure," James murmured.

At the mention of an adventure, her eyes flickered open, and the lingering traces of sleepiness instantly vanished, replaced by a spark of curiosity. "Adventure?" she echoed, sitting up slightly.

"Hmm. A night out at Vauxhall Gardens."

"I have not been there," she responded, her interest clearly piqued.

"Good. Do you have any prior engagements?"

Elizabeth smiled. "My aunt accepted an invitation to Lady Chamberlain's ball. I will wait until my aunt and mother are dressed and plead a headache."

"Will that be believable?" James inquired, lifting his brow.

"My father always said I am a worthy actress who could grace the stage," she replied smugly. "He only stopped saying so after my mother heard the joke once and fainted."

James chuckled, amused by the vivid picture she painted. "You will have to be in disguise. You could dress as a lady. I will procure a dress, a face mask, and a wig. Or you could be attired as a gentleman."

"Truly? As a gentleman?"

"Yes."

"I have never dressed as a lad before," she said, the idea seeming to both amuse and excite her.

"Then I will procure clothes to fit a gentleman."

"With such short notice?" she questioned, a touch of skepticism in her tone.

"I am the Duke of Basil," he said with a tilt of his head.

"How astonishing that I never knew arrogance could be presented so charmingly. You have broadened my horizon this night."

James brushed a tendril from her cheek, lowering to brush his mouth against her forehead. "I can lay the world at your feet should you wish it."

Her eyes widened, and his damn heart lurched at the naked longing on her face. James was tempted to ask, but she lowered her lashes, hiding from his stare. He frowned, realizing only a week ago, she'd planned to secure a husband for the season. That hope had been broken, and now she was in a carriage after a thorough ravishment with a man who would not promise her anything beyond their night of passion. James's heart lurched, and he was assailed with an emotion that was unknown to him.

"Elizabeth—"

"If you say something to make me cry, I will have my revenge," she murmured, her voice cracking.

"I would never want to hurt you."

"You do not have the power to. I am here with you because it is what I want."

"Good," James said, unable to understand the piercing disquiet in his gut.

Why the hell am I so different when I am with you, Elizabeth?

* * *

Elizabeth's returnto her aunt's townhouse was executed with practiced stealth, her familiarity with the layout allowing her to navigate through the servants' entrance without a sound. She paused for a moment in the shadows, her ears tuned to the nocturnal sounds of the house settling. Confident that the servants were abed, she quickly made her way up the narrow servants' staircase. Her steps were light, the soft padding of her slippers barely audible as she moved with purpose through the dimly lit hallway and up another flight of stairs to her own bedchamber.

The night was still young, and Elizabeth knew her mother and aunt would linger at the ball, reveling until the early hours. They had grown accustomed to her early departures from such events, accepting her need for solitude over prolonged social engagements. Grateful for their understanding—or perhaps their distraction—she entered her bedchamber and closed her bedroom door softly behind her.

Elizabeth started undressing herself. With a sigh of relief, she peeled off her ball gown and stays, the fabric pooling around her feet in a whisper of silk. She removed her dancing slippers and silken stockings. Elizabeth then tackled her hair, which was in disarray. Several hairpins were missing, likely lost in the garden. With a gentle shake of her head, her curls cascaded down her back, waves of hair tumbling freely to settle at her hips.

Elizabeth climbed onto her bed, lying on her stomach. The soft sheets welcomed her tired body, and she exhaled deeply, letting the quiet of her room wash over her. As she lay there, the moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across her room. Sleep eluded Elizabeth. Her thoughts were alive with memories of the evening, the sound of music still echoing in her ears, the subtle scent of the gardens lingering on her skin, and the feel of James's mouth against her pussy.

She was also acutely aware of a deep, persistent ache within her sex. Elizabeth swallowed, remembering the invading hardness and the sensation of unbearable stretching. She groaned and buried her heated cheeks into the pillow. Her pussy throbbed longingly when she recalled his heated murmur against her mouth, whispering about the filthy things he would do to her. She groaned and clamped her thighs together in an effort to resist the urge to touch herself. How can I still feel so?

Then she laughed, still disbelieving how wicked she had been with the duke.

Who am I when I am with you, James?

Unable to sleep, she pushed from the bed, slipped on her robe and left her room for the library on the second floor. Opening the door, she smiled to see a fire burning and that a lamp was lit, casting the room in a warm glow. She padded over to the writing desk and retrieved a sheaf of paper. As Elizabeth dipped her pen into the inkwell, she paused, gathering her thoughts before she started writing her letter.

Dearest Cassie,

I miss you dreadfully and wish you were here with me in England. However, I believe should you ever visit, you would be quite rebellious and shock their priggish souls with your wonderful antics. London is as vibrant, the society at times overwhelming as ever, each ball feels like a whirlwind, where one word could soar a debutante as a diamond of the season, or another cutting word could see a young lady's reputation ruined.

I find myself caught in a peculiar situation that I am compelled to share with you, for it consumes much of my thoughts these days. You might recall me mentioning the Duke of Basil—yes, the very one notorious for his aversion to marriage. Well, fate, in its peculiar humor, has thrown us together on a few occasions. He is unlike any man I've met here: infuriatingly arrogant, devilishly charming, and undeniably captivating. When he is near, I feel a rush of feelings that I can scarcely explain. He possesses a charm that is subtle yet evocative, and when he looks at me, it is as if he sees right through the fa?ade that society demands I uphold and somehow understands me.

I like and admire him, Cassie. Yet, with all this said, he is steadfast in his resolve not to marry, and the ton even refers to the duke as a rake. Knowing this should make things simpler, but, my dear friend, it complicates them instead. A part of me longs to indulge in the thrill and wickedness his company offers; another, perhaps wiser part, knows I must guard my heart against the very real danger of falling for someone who will never offer me a future.

I confess, Cassie, I want to have fun, to experience the exhilaration of his regard without the weight of expectations. But how does one dance on the edge of such a precipice without slipping? I also fear developing a tendre for the duke to only receive his indifference. It is a delicious torment, and yet I wonder if it is wise to continue.

I long to hear from you, Cassie, and I miss you dearly. I shall return home in a few months, but I still eagerly await your reply.

With all my love and more,

Elizabeth

She sealed the letter and placed it on the salver for the butler to frank it and have it sent off later. Elizabeth retreated to her room, slipped beneath the coverlet and tried to sleep. The lingering thrill of freedom mixed with an undeniable sense of longing for something, or perhaps someone, stayed with Elizabeth, following even into her dreams.